


It Flickers

by FluffyPuffySheeps



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Mediocre Parent Bruce Wayne, Sad, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:15:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26518834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FluffyPuffySheeps/pseuds/FluffyPuffySheeps
Summary: Bruce meets a dead boy on a rooftop.Angst.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 157





	It Flickers

**Author's Note:**

> I hadn't intended to write anything until I was finished with another installment of Guardian Brothers.  
> But I'm having a really bad day, so I sat down and wrote this. 
> 
> Mood music (listen to this on repeat for full effect. I know I did. When I was writing. By the way, It's One More Light by Linkin Park. It's clean, if that's something you're worried about): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ePlkH6sfZc

He was pale.

That was the first thing Bruce noticed.

He was pale.

Thin. Gaunt. Tired. Glassy eyes. Unkempt hair. Slumped shoulders. Blinking, water, teardrops- and a flicker. He was flickering. Unreal, in this moment, a ghost that shouldn’t be present. In fact, he was almost glowing, an unearthly luminous quality to the air around him, lending him a cold white aura that shined like the dull light of streetlights on a rainy night.

The boy sat on the edge of the rooftop, precariously perched, as though he could be toppled over by the wind at any moment. As though he _wanted_ to topple over. Leaning into the space over the edge, fingers slipping, losing his balance-

Then he flickered again, and was back to perching on the roof.

“Hey.”

It was a whisper, a sigh, all in one.

Bruce felt like he was falling.

The boy patted the spot next to him, tapping once, twice, before he gave up. Like the simple task was too much energy, too much work.

“How?” Bruce asked, reeling.

The ghost shrugged. Not even a shrug. More of a lift of the shoulders, a nudge upwards, then a tired release.

The answer didn’t seem to even be spoken, but whistled by the summer breezes.

“Does it matter?”

Fair enough.

Bruce made his way to sit next to him, climbing atop the ledge, ready to adjust his kevlar and armor. But that had disappeared- somehow, he was now dressed in nondescript jeans and a t-shirt. Gray. 

Oh.

These were the clothes he’d worn the night-

“I’m sorry.” He said, finally.

Ghost boy didn’t respond.

“I should have been there. I’m sorry I wasn’t.”

The boy sighed, nervously rubbing the watch in his wrist. Had Bruce given him that watch? He felt like he had, some last minute gift for a late birthday. The watch looked well worn now, the metal worn away where the boy was rubbing it. Now that he thought of it, Bruce couldn't remember a time he _didn't_ have the watch. Ever since the present, he'd worn it with him everywhere. What had Bruce gotten him the next year?

Oh. That's right. Nothing.

He'd forgotten.

“There was no moon that night.” The boy whispered.

“What?” Bruce asked, surprised. He’d been sure they would’ve talked about his problems, Bruce’s failings. His many, many failings. ( _Martha, Thomas, Jason, You.)_ This was all his fault, of course. Weren’t they going to to discuss that?

“The last thing I saw was the dark.”

In this sky, atop the rooftop, there was no moon either. It was a midnight black that swallowed up the city below, eerily still and silent, drowned in fog. The shadows covered up the surrounding rooftops as well, hiding the skyline beyond. It was still. Quiet. The only light came from the boy who sat next to him, his glow reminiscent of sickly starlight, covering the hushed world in a dampened light, flickering every now and then.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“What?” Bruce asked, surprised again. Hadn’t that been a metaphor? For the things Bruce had failed to notice? This was his punishment, surely. His ghosts had come back to haunt him, to yell and scream and whisper in his ear about all the ways he went wrong. And then he would pick himself up and do his best to make up for all of his wrongdoings (even though he could never pay the debt).

“Are you even sorry? Or are you just guilty?’ The boy questioned.

“What do you mean?”

“Bruce, did you even ever care?”

“Of course I-”

_Of course he cared._ He wouldn’t be this broken if he didn’t care. He wouldn’t be looking longingly at the same ledges, or skipping his breakfast, or working on cases for days straight. How dare he think Bruce didn’t care?

“I suppose it doesn’t matter.” The boy said. “What’s done is done.”

“I did. _I did_ , I cared so much. I miss having you, having you be there, helping, being with me. Of course it matters.” Bruce pleaded desperately. 

The ghost snorted. “Having me. Having me _help_. All you cared about was-” He stopped, breaking off so suddenly Bruce found himself surprised for the third time in as many minutes. He mentally scolded himself for the slip-up. “Never mind. I’m too tired to have an opinion.”

He flickered.

“I’m so _tired_.”

And then, without a warning, he was crying. Big, fat, bottled-up-for-too-long tears that streamed down his cheeks in rivers, his shoulders shaking, showing the most movement Bruce had seen since he got here. The boy hunched over and into himself, curling up into a ball, holding himself as tight as he could, both protected and vulnerable to the world.

Bruce reached a hand out, intending to place it on the boy’s back, but stopped himself. It wasn’t his place. He wasn’t the father here.

But he had a duty. This was his fault, he would avenge him, he would fix his mistakes. His many, many mistakes.

“I’m sorry.”

Just as quickly as it had started, the crying stopped. The boy’s face smoothed out, becoming the glassy-eyed neutral face that Bruce had seen when he came in. It made him wonder what the boy’s face would look like if he didn’t pretend.

The answer came almost as soon as he asked the question. He’d just seen a glimpse.

Cicadas buzzed all around them, sending up a chorus of the night’s shrieks and howls. The shadows grew a bit more, reaching closer, closing in. Beside him, the boy closed his eyes. 

“There’s nothing left to say.”

He flickered.

“I have so much I- So much I wish you’d realize. Or I’d realize. Or- I don’t know. Is it my fault? Or is it yours? Would it have gotten better if I’d waited? Or-”

He paused, and Bruce realized that this was the most the boy’d said since he got here.

“Or was I just destined for this.”

The ghost- boy carefully stood up, balancing on the edge, peering over. He lifted one foot out into the abyss, stretching far below him, a bottomless hole.

“Don’t.” Bruce heard himself say.

“What’s the point?” The boy asked. Inquisitive. Innocently confused. It made Bruce sick to hear this blatant dismissal of the importance of life said so comfortably. “My time is up. My time has been up from the moment I was born.”

He flickered, once, twice, before his light went out.

Bruce couldn’t see anything. The darkness surrounded him, biting into him, nibbling away at his every thought, hiding away any sort of salvation. He swore, feeling the ground around him to get his bearings. He reached out to the spot next to him and realized too late it was empty. The boy was gone, the boy was.

_Gone_.

No.

Nononono this wasn’t supposed to happen again, he had to save him, he had to save everyone-

There was a scruff of shoe against cement next to him, and a woosh of air as clothes flapped from the sudden rush of wind. Then-

Silence.

“ _TIM!”_


End file.
